


To Save A Prince

by KaramelKat



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Ending, Drama & Romance, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 07:55:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3602295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaramelKat/pseuds/KaramelKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tauriel saves Kili during BOTFA, but Fili is not so lucky.  With the Crown Prince in critical condition and a dark power attempting to take over, the elf and dwarf join forces to save Kili's brother.  Will they be successful??</p>
<p>Another Fix-it fiction, because we love Kili/Tauriel and can't let the romance die with the movies!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Disclaimer: I own none of these characters or ideas – I am simply playing with ideas presented by Tolkien & P. Jackson, meshing them with my own to make a fun story. I hope you enjoy it. Big thank you to my beta reader/grammar checker BookWorm624 from fanfiction (dot) net for keeping me in line. And a second thank you goes to my cousin Victoria who beta-read to make sure this story is an enjoyable read. If you do enjoy, please remember to review. Thank you._

“ _Kíli!_ ” Tauriel shouted for the dwarf prince, spinning in a circle, seeking physical confirmation of his whereabouts. Her fresh orc kill lay twitching at her feet.

She exhaled a breath of air that frosted over in the cold. Above were the vicious snarls and guttural growls of orcs fighting with others. The clanging of metal swords parrying each other, the creak of wood from Legolas’s longbow, the whistle of his arrows as they sought a mark could be heard. But where is Kíli? 

He was here. She just couldn’t pinpoint where - neither by sight nor sound - above the other din. It was maddening to be helped and deterred by her senses all at once.

_He could be dead already._

He could not be dead. She did not save him so many times only to fail this time. Stomach churning, panic flared creating a rapid oscillation in her heart.

_“Kíli!”_

_“Tauriel!”_

Relief and hope blossomed through her as she turned towards the sunlight of his voice coming from above her head. She turned her face to the sound. His name left her lips in a whispered prayer of relief that was over before she could even thank the Valar for sparing him until she could get there.

Dimly she heard the roar to her left, but Tauriel turned an instant too late. The cumbersome weight of Bolg, Azog’s son, slammed into her, heaving her upon the steps that led to Kíli.

_Stupid! Stupid!_

Chiding her inattentiveness would have to wait until later. Tauriel felt herself being dragged backwards by Bolg’s grip on her hair. She had lost one of her daggers on the stairs, but she still had the other in her hand. As soon as he pulled her about to face him she cut.

Two quick slices to his knees did not deter the giant orc. It did loosen his grip and she took the advantage to slice his front. Her dagger did little damage against the metal plates Bolg had macabrely welded to his own skin. Her second swipe was caught in his meaty grip before she could inflict another wound.

She cried out involuntarily as he twisted her arm trying to make her lose her weapon. She would have done the same to new trainees assigned to her in the Guard. Twisting her own wrist with the motion, she broke his hold. Tauriel slid under his other side, spinning around and slicing her blade down his back.

Still Bolg persisted, unfazed by Tauriel’s attack as he turned, his arm lashing out to smash her. She ducked the blow, slicing him as she spun under his reach, bringing her dagger around overhead. Her free arm she used to block another blow. She arced the sharp point of her blade downward.

Bolg caught her wrist before the dagger struck; wrenching her shoulder, pain radiating down her arm. Her grip on the handle slackened, the dagger clattering to the snow-covered ground. The brief flare of pain in her shoulder quadrupled as he brought his solid, metal endowed fist upon her face.

Stars exploded in her vision. She dropped to the ground, subdued momentarily as a black haze threatened to engulf her. There was not one moment’s relief from the orc’s assault as Bolg picked her up by the neck. It was as if she weighed no more than a leaf to him, her legs dangling. His grasp around her neck tightened, cutting off all the air to her lungs.

Fear pooled in her hazel eyes, shaking her body as he pulled her in towards him. Blood, drawn by the metal on his fist, dripped down her face. Bolg’s bestial eyes were filled with the promise of pain and torture before he was done with her.

_Valar help me!_

Choking back her fear, even as Bolg choked the life from her, Tauriel drew back her leg and placed a well-aimed and strong kick to the inside of his thigh, bringing him to his knees. His fingers slackened momentarily and the Captain punched down upon his arm, freeing herself from the hold. As he lunged at her, she brought her arm about in a backhand, only to be ensnared by Bolg’s massive arms as he threw her away from him into the stone parapets.

Pain ruptured all over as her back met the rock, her ribs cracking and a sharp jab from two points on her spine making it worse. She dropped to the ground, once again overcome by the strength of the massive orc. As her body convulsed from the shock it had received, she watched helplessly as Bolg approached, unsheathing the massive mace-blade upon his back.

_I am dead. I am sorry Kíli. I cannot save you this time..._ Tauriel lifted her head, unable to stop the oncoming blow.

And then suddenly he was there. Like a ghost, he appeared in the fog, dropping into her vision from above. There was a war cry upon his lips as he drove his sword towards Bolg’s head.

_Kíli!_

Elation immediately turned to horror. His sword had missed its mark and he landed on Bolg’s shoulders. As Kíli struggled to stay out of Bolg’s grip, he brought his sword around Bolg’s neck, strangling him in the process.

Tauriel’s shock receded as she got her breath back. Her back ached from the throw and those two sharp points kept digging into her spine as if to torture her already tender flesh. She reached behind her, her fingers brushing across a forgotten item tucked into the back of her belt.

_The slingshot._

It was the scholarly dwarf’s weapon. His gentle face skipped across her memory, one of the company of thirteen. _Ori._ She had learned the names of the dwarrow during the few weeks they stayed in the Mirkwood dungeons. Ori had been polite and well mannered, thanking her for each meal and he never threw it back at her as some had done. 

They had stripped the dwarrow of all their weapons before securing them in their cells. Ori’s slingshot had caused some sneering amusement amongst her guard. That he had faced down the giant spiders with what was considered a child’s toy, had furthered their belittlement of his weaponry. 

Tauriel knew from a brief conversation between herself and Ori one night on duty, that the slingshot had familial sentiment to the dwarf. Kíli had been sleeping. The only two dwarrow awake were Ori, scribbling away on a piece of parchment he had been allowed to keep, and the grunting dwarf with the axe buried in his skull. That one never spoke a word - just grunted. The axe buried in his skull alone was enough to unnerve even the most detached guard. Tauriel’s curiosity had been piqued that night by the hushed scratch of Ori’s writing.

She had chanced to ask him what he wrote. At first, he was reluctant to speak - hesitant and timid in her presence. Tauriel had waited patiently and eventually he opened up. As Ori spoke of the company’s journey, the scholar had become more animated - only sometimes stuttering over his tongue as he tried to keep certain details secreted away. Eventually she had asked him about his choice of weapon, an odd choice for a dwarf.

_“It’s the only weapon my brother Dori will let me carry. He thinks I’m going to poke my eye out if I use a blade. When I was younger, I got into loads of trouble trying to pick up my brothers’ weapons and use them. Finally my father decided to give me the slingshot during my twelfth winter. He told me to practice with it and that if I could learn to hit the wings off a bee, then I would be ready to learn another weapon. It was his last gift to me. He died before I could show him that I did what he asked; I stunned a bee midflight. I know everyone laughs, but when I use it, I think of what he told me - no matter the size, no weapon is useless when handled properly and efficiently.”_

The afternoon Tauriel had fled from Mirkwood to chase after thirteen barrel riding dwarrow; she had stopped by the armory to stock herself for her journey. Ori’s slingshot had been placed haphazardly on top of the pile of dwarrow blades, axes and bows. Little care had been provided for their prisoners’ weaponry. Tauriel had made a mental note to lecture her men upon return. There was no excuse for sloppy inattention.

What had possessed her to take the slingshot for Ori - was she a soft heart or just familiar with the pain of losing a sentimental family treasure? She didn’t like to debate much about the reason for her decision. It would not do to admit she had a fondness for any dwarf, let alone her king’s prisoners. Thranduil would think her mad. Perhaps she was, as her hand had reached out, grabbing the tiny catapult from the pile and tucking it into her belt with the intent to return it to its proper owner.

Now, Tauriel palmed it into her hand quickly, half a second after her memory of taking it. She blanched as Bolg threw Kíli upon the stone steps, tossing him as he had tossed her. Kíli was clothed in mail armor, the links of metal taking the brunt of the blow. Her dwarf proved strong as his race rumored, leaping to his feet, turning and charging back at Bolg in fury.

Her eyes glanced away for a moment seeking a weapon of her own. Her daggers were trampled under Bolg’s fetid feet, useless to her from this far away. She had only Ori’s slingshot and the snow covered ground which revealed no ammunition to arm the trebuchet.

_The rune stone._

Kíli’s rune stone - the one he had given to her in haste of the dwarrow’s departure at Esgaroth. It had come with his confession of love. The giving of his gift had been a confusing mix of mingled grief, abandonment and idolatry at the lakeside. There was too much going on in the wake of Smaug’s destruction; it had left her little time to ponder her own affections for the dwarf. 

The spherical oval of scripted stone, hidden in Tauriel’s sleeve, began to heat up as if the very thought of it caused it to burn. She shook her wrist to release the stone into her palm, wincing when her arm protested the movement. Bolg was so much stronger than she or Kíli and the wall he had thrown her against had been equally unrelenting. She lifted her gaze to see Kíli duck a strike and make one of his own. Bolg blocked the blow, pinning Kíli down.

“No!” Tauriel launched herself forward, her body screaming in agonized protest. She ignored her pain as her arms locked around Bolg’s arm restraining him momentarily. The giant warrior flung her away once more. Tauriel was ready for it this time, tucking her body and flipping. She landed in a crouch, arms readying Ori’s weapon in front of her. The rune stone fit snug in the launch, giving her courage it was the right choice.

Bolg lifted his mace blade high over his head, poised to strike his final blow. He turned towards her at the last moment, likely to enjoy her agony over Kíli’s death. Tauriel drew the stone back in her shot, taking aim.

_Oromë give me strength and true aim._

The stone left the sling a heartbeat after her prayer. Time slowed down, standing still around the periphery of her vision as she poured all her focus into following the path of the rune stone. It found its target, striking Bolg hard in one eye, momentarily blinding him.

The pale orc let out a great roar, his head tossing back. There was a quick flash of a blade as Kíli’s sword arced upward and found a home in the unguarded flesh below his jaw. With a final yell, his sword pierced through bone and skull, only stopping when the blade split the other side of Bolg’s skull.

Time sped up again as the compacted thud of his mace-blade combined with Bolg’s death pitch, shook the ground beneath Tauriel’s feet. His massive form fell forward, burying Kíli beneath the orc. The silence left in the wake of Bolg’s death was nearly as startling as his attack on Tauriel had been.

“Kíli!” Tauriel cast herself towards the newly dead orc and the dwarf under him. Her ribs were on fire, her breathing shallow - a sure sign she had cracked or broken a few of them in the fight. None of this deterred her from trying to free the dwarf. Grimacing in pain, she bent over the putrid body of the orc, swallowing down her nausea caused by both her motions and the smell of rotten orc flesh. She grasped Bolg’s shoulder and summoned a prayer for strength as she rolled him off of Kíli.

Joy surged through her breast, clamped just as suddenly by dread as she revealed the dwarf prince. Kíli lay still and unmoving, blood flowing freely from a wound on his temple, staining the snow red under his head. Judging on the angle she found his position, it appeared Bolg’s fused metal armor claimed one final victim before its master was slain.

_“No!”_ Tauriel flung herself to her knees next to him, her ribs screaming in protest at her position. No! Do not be dead Kíli! Salt tears stung her hazel eyes, unchecked sorrow flooding her soul. She shook his shoulder. _“Kíli!”_

_“Kíli! Kíli!”_

He remained unresponsive to her cries. Tenderly she lifted his head, cradling him against her. Tauriel’s chin settled atop his head. “Please. Please you cannot leave me,” she whispered to Kíli. “You made a promise. You must keep it.” Her vision blurred as tears escaped, mixing with the blood on her face, to drip in pink drops to the snow underneath her.

_Do you think she could have loved me?_

Kíli was audacious and feckless. He wore his heart on his sleeve and spoke without thinking most of the time. He had made her laugh, made her smile and had turned her entire world upside down since the moment she had first set eyes on him. She had been changed by him although she had not known how to name the feelings he inspired within her. 

Tauriel had never answered his question, but the answer had been there the entire time she had known him.

_“Your smile put the stars and sun to shame. It blinded me Kíli, and I was too late to see you.”_ Tauriel told him in Sindarin. She lifted her head to look upon him, cradling him gently in her arms. His eyes were closed peacefully, almost as if he were simply asleep. Her hand gently stroked the strands of his hair away from his forehead. _“My heart is yours.”_ Her acceptance of her own feelings served to deliver a fresh wave of hurt. It constricted her chest, gasping sobs escaping her lips. Fresh tears erupted in her hazel eyes and she clutched him closer, weeping openly. 

For those precious few moments she was lost in her own miserable mourning. But it would not last. Above the sound of her tears, Tauriel could hear the familiar noises of a battle ongoing. The orcs did not care if she lost something so cherished as the innocent life of the dwarf prince. They only desired for carnage, destruction and death. Her body began to warm as anger simmered in her chest, replacing the cold grief that gripped her.

She wanted to cling to Kíli’s warmth, hold him until his body began to turn cold, but she knew she could not. The vulgar utterance of black speech was quickly coming from where Kíli had descended above. Orcs were fast approaching and she was defenseless in her current position.

Tauriel laid Kíli back on the ground with a gentle hand. With one final caress to his cheek, she got to her feet. She retrieved her dagger that had been lost during her fight with Bolg, checking to make sure it was serviceable. The other dagger she found on the stairs where it lay after spinning out of her hand. Just as she recovered it, the first orc appeared at the top of the stairs, thundering down towards her.

Fury and grief could be powerful allies or the greatest enemy in a fight. Tauriel knew this from experience. She also knew how to harness those emotions into a blind rage that lent strength to her combat. She used this skill now, evading the first swipe of the orc’s chains and delivering a strong uppercut slice that slit him from navel to nose.

There were five of them in this group. They were not as fearsome as Bolg had been, but their purpose was just as deadly. Having already dispatched the first of them, Tauriel leapt up the stairs, intent on keeping the other four away from Kíli’s body. They would not defile him as a trophy as they were wont to do.

She met the second orc at the top of the stairs. It was nearly the same height as she. Instead of waiting for it to attack her, Tauriel went on the offensive making a fake swipe with her right hand. As expected the orc moved to block her attack and she delivered a deathly blow to its left, twisting her daggers to maximize the damage to it. Pulling them out just as quickly, she leapt to the side sending the orc in a rolling spill down the stairway.

Delaying no time, she faced the last three who were snarling and growling in their filthy tongue. She did not need to understand their dark words to know the intent behind them. Tauriel readied her daggers expecting the attack from all three sides.

The first of the three to draw upon her had a sword longer than her dagger’s reach. She used her dagger to block the impact of its attack, metal bitterly clashing a protest as they met. Her elf ears heard the sound of the air being disturbed from behind her. She bent backwards, her ribs crying out in agony, as the second orc’s spike club buried itself into the skull of his unlucky companion. The pressure of the sword on her dagger quit immediately.

Black blood sprayed upon her; a squelching sound as the second orc pulled his club free of his crony’s head. Tauriel had only a moment to right herself, anticipating the next blow. She spun as she came up and then ducked again, a near miss as the second blow swung above her head. In her crouched position, she sprang at the second orc, her daggers crisscrossed before her as she slammed them into the exposed flesh of its belly. Separating her knives, she flayed the filth open, its tainted innards spilling onto the stone.

Tauriel warily surveyed her last opponent as the orc she gutted dropped to the ground. It held a long spear in its hands, meant to keep close combat to a minimum. Her daggers would only be useful if she could get close enough to cut. If only Thranduil had not cleaved her bow in half, she’d still have it and the odds would not be against her.

But wishing for her bow couldn’t help her now. Her knives rarely failed her and she must trust in her skills and experience. Her opponent circled around her, seeking an opening. The orc possessed mandibular fangs that when paired with its thin, beady eyes, gave it a permanent grumpy look. She kept pace with it, arcing one dagger defensively at her shoulder level and the other held steady before her, prepared for the first strike. 

At the first thrust, Tauriel blocked with her leading dagger and slashed at the orc with her other dagger. Her opponent jumped back the same time as she. With a snarl, it attacked again levering the spear towards her breast. Tauriel danced sideways inverting the knife in her right hand. At the next strike, she blocked again with the left, stepping in to deliver a swift slice to the orc’s arm. Without stopping, she spun under that same arm ducking behind and striking.

The orc turned to face her but not before she managed another slice to its shoulder. Tauriel found herself on the defensive again as it used the weapon to push her out of her daggers reach and charged its own blade in forward momentum. She reverted her right blade, crisscrossing both blades to stop the spear before it could pierce her chest. With a yell she pushed the spear up and away from her, her dagger meeting the metal a second later as the orc brought it down upon her.

With every thrust and parry, every push and pull, the orc forced her closer to the rim of stone overlooking the tableau where Kíli and Bolg lay dead. Tauriel feinted to the left and struck in a roundhouse kick, forcing her assailant back. Tauriel followed through, stepping in for another cut. She caught the blunt end of the spear’s shaft to her side. There was a flare of pain as the orc twisted the spear on the withdraw, her armor and the top layer of her skin sliced by the blade.

Tauriel leapt back landing on the edge of stone once more. She could feel blood flowing from her wound. If she survived, it would heal. The same could be said of her ribs and the wound on her head from Bolg’s fist. But not her heart. Her heart would never heal from Kíli’s death. For half a second she glanced away from her enemy to look upon her fallen prince where he lay below.

Gentle brown eyes, the color of rich warm chestnut, stared back up at her.

Startled, Tauriel barely managed to block the orc’s attack, the edge of the blade not three inches from her face. She pushed back, using her leg strength to throw it off and back away from her. With renewed fervor and an anxiety to confirm that what she had seen was true, she aimed three quick, strong slices to the shaft of the spear, slicing the blade head completely off.

Leaping back, she turned her head to glance back down at Kíli, hardly daring to believe his eyes were open. 

_It is just a dream._

His eyes were closed and he lay where he had been. The hope that had flared in her chest died a quick death. The folly of her mistake cost her the advantage as the orc wielded his broken spear shaft like a club. It hit her directly in the chest sending her flying off the rim, thrown twelve feet below to where Kíli lay.

She hit the ground, her skull cracking against the snow-covered stone. She let out a cry as her ribs suffered once more upon impact. If any of them had been cracked, Tauriel was positive they were broken now. Each breath felt heavy and laden with hardship. Black dots and stars danced across vision, her ears were ringing with a high pitched sound. She watched helplessly as the orc began to descend the stairs. It had picked up the sword previously wielded by another.

_It is just a dream._

From beyond her field of sight, arrows appeared out of nowhere, striking the orc in its chest. One. Two. Three.

Her vision faded in and out. One moment the orc was halfway down the steps, sword raised in its hand. The next, it was crumpled on the next to the last step near the first of its group that she had slain. Multiple arrows pierced its body. 

Tauriel heard her name being called but she couldn’t respond. Every rib hurt. Her lungs were burning with the effort just to draw in each breath. She knew that voice. It sounded as if it were shouting from far away, calling her name. 

_Legolas._

Her friend had come to save her. His face obscured her vision for a moment as he paused over her. He was speaking to her but she could not hear him clearly. Then he doubled and there were two of him. Both Legolas’s looked up at something in the distance before aiming their bow and firing in twin shots. He leapt out of her sight a moment later. Both of him.

_It is just a dream._

Tauriel’s head rolled to the side, the effort of staying conscious becoming too great a burden. Her vision blurred, obscuring all details until she became aware of two sets of chestnut colored eyes looking at her again.

_It is just a dream. This cannot be real._

Kíli’s face came into a single point of focus for a brief instant. His face was turned towards her, his beautiful dark eyes watching her. Her sight doubled again, darkness blackening her peripheral. Through the murky haze that tried to pull her under, Tauriel saw his fingers move, his arm lifting and reaching out towards her. She could see a word forming upon his lips but could not hear his voice over the cotton that had become lodged in her ears. She would know that word, having heard it once before from his very lips.

_Amrâlimê_

Her eyelids fluttered closed without her permission to do so. Even as the blackness engulfed her, Tauriel screamed out against the dark, berating it for taking her away from the dwarf prince.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
_A few weeks earlier…_

He was staring at her again.

Ever since his capture two days ago, the young dark haired dwarf was always staring at Tauriel. Even Legolas had questioned her on it. She had no answer for him that she was willing to speak of. The Prince would not take kindly to news of the overt advances the prisoner had made to her.

Tauriel stood straight and tall on the bridge that overlooked the Woodland Realm’s dungeons. From this vantage point she could hear and see all the cells occupied by the company of dwarves. This was her second night overseeing the watch. The first night had been relatively loud from a number of the older dwarves as they cast insults and various curses at her person. Tonight there had been grumbling from some of the cells, but they were not nearly as boisterous about their dislike of her. Or their hatred of elves in general.

It was quieter now, the hour growing later. Most were asleep or giving the pretense of being asleep. The rotund, short dwarf with the balding red head was snoring so loud, Tauriel did not doubt his slumber was real. 

“What is your name?”

The question had come from the dark haired one. Of course it would. His eyes had been burning holes into her face ever since the start of her shift. Tauriel turned her head to look at him. His face was pressed against the bars of his cell as he peered out at her.

A slender brow lifted upon her pale countenance. “Is it not customary to give one’s own name first?”

The corners of his lips quirked as if he found her question amusing although she could not see how. She looked upon him, waiting for answer. As the silence stretched out between them she couldn’t help but note that he was not at all like the other dwarrow. His jaw, while not clean-shaven, lacked the full braided beards that most of the others beheld. From what she knew of his race, either he was very young or he had recently been in mourning.

“Kíli.”

His voice held a pleasantly deep timbre to its resonance of his name. It echoed in the alcoves momentarily until it was swallowed into the waterfall at the back of the cavern. Tauriel shook herself out of her reverie over his lack of beard and turned towards his cell to address her prisoner.

“Tauriel.” She inclined her head as it was considered a polite acknowledgement of his presence. She should have turned back to her watch but found herself viewing his personage much as he looked at her. He was tall for a dwarf, the top of his head meeting her breastplate when she had escorted him into his cell. He was not as broad as some of his companions and the longer she took inventory of his countenance, she became convinced his lack of beard was due to youth instead of grief. 

He dropped his gaze from her face, to her chest. The tips of her ears started to burn indignantly until he lowered his gaze further to her waistline. “Your daggers are magnificent Tauriel. You handle them expertly.” His eyes glanced from either side to the twin blades on her hips.

The tips of her ears began to burn again, this time with embarrassed pleasure at the compliment. She took pride in the way she handled her weapons, and her rank. Not many Sindarin elves could claim the titled position she held at such a young age, but Tauriel was a Sylvan elf which made it even more unique.

There were some who speculated Thranduil had assigned her the position in a fit of nepotism, favoring an orphaned Sylvan elf out of pity. Tauriel knew that not to be true; her own hard work had gained her title for her. She had dedicated herself to the guard; never begging off a training session nor missing a shift once she had been placed on the guard. Under her Captain’s tutelage she had volunteered for extra shifts, taken on additional duties and worked her way up the ranks until she was able to command her own team.

For all that hard working devotion and the time she committed, the only acknowledgement Thranduil had ever given to her skills and experience was appointing her Captain. A rare chance at her age but other than granting her current title, there had been no verbal praise or approval from her king in a long time. Not since she was an elfling. And his was the approval Tauriel sought most.

“Thank you,” she vocalized, turning her head back to resume her watch. Tauriel thought that would be the end of the conversation but she was incorrect.

“Did you make your blades yourself?”

Since he seemed to want to carry on a conversation, Tauriel stepped away from her post taking the few steps away from the bridge and up the stairs to arrive in front of his cell. Standing before him, Kíli had to incline his head up to see her.

“I did not. Master Oldhinor crafted my daggers for me.” Tauriel unsheathed one of her daggers. She did not put it within Kíli’s reach - she knew better than that - but she turned it towards the light so that he could have a better look. “He is a true master of crafting fine weaponry.” The blade was crafted from a sturdy type of metal that gave off a hue of golden sunshine in the right light. Oldhinor had cut design holes into the metal, making it lighter and easier for her to spin. There were small grooves in the stout wooden handle, created over time by her handling of the blade.

“They are well made,” Kíli agreed after looking upon them for a few minutes. “Are you so skilled with any other weaponry?”

Tauriel put her dagger back in its scabbard. “I am an expert with a bow.” Her voice was not bragging, just matter of fact.

Kíli grinned at her, his teeth stark white set amidst the dark stubble of his face. “That’s my weapon. I’m an archer.”

Tauriel’s brow lifted again in question. “Truly? Is that not an unusual choice for your kind?” Her voice was not scornful, merely curious.

“Not so unusual,” Kíli disagreed. He leaned against the cell wall, crossing his arms in front of him. “We all use bows to hunt for game, but there are some dwarrow who find they handle a bow better than an axe or blade.” He grinned again, his voice warm with pride and bragging as he stated, “I’m one of them.”

“It is a short bow is it not?”

Tauriel’s question led to a conversation on the types of bows each of them preferred. She didn’t recall when she sat down on the steps to listen to Kíli talk. She also didn’t recall when the conversation turned from preference on weapons to sharing stories of battle. Tauriel spoke to Kíli of other spider nests the guard had destroyed. In return, Kíli regaled her with tales of his days as a hired guard on the Greenway, protecting the goods of merchants from the hands of thieves. It wasn’t until nearly three hours had passed that there was a lull in the conversation, both of them having run out of stories to share.

“I suppose we’re not so very different.”

The thought slid past Tauriel’s lips before she could stop herself from speaking it. She glanced down at the ground, scuffing the toe of her boot upon the stone floor, engaged in contemplation of what she meant. Kíli’s enthusiastic mannerisms and easy smiles clashed with all she had been told of dwarrow’s secretive and underhanded nature. The king himself was of the opinion that all dwarves were untrustworthy, deal breaking _werth_. Had she grudgingly accepted these assumptions as fact without questioning why?

“I suppose not,” Kíli agreed. “In fact you and I have quite a bit in common; I’m also an expert master of _my own weapon_.”

Tauriel’s head whipped up as she caught him grinning in the most rakish manner at her. The double entendre laced in the tone of his innuendo was not lost on Tauriel’s ears. It was not the first time he had flirted so unashamedly.

“Are you indeed?” Tauriel’s lips twitched for a mere moment as she struggled to control the laughter that suddenly bubbled up inside of her. He really was incorrigible. She had experience with putting him in his place and she did so once again. She stood to her feet, affecting a placid tone, “Self-taught no doubt.” 

Kíli’s infectious laughter over her teasing taunt let Tauriel know she hadn’t offended her cheeky prisoner in the slightest.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_After the battle..._

“-don’t care if you think a healer is not needed. I say she needs one! Send for your elves at once!”

Dimly Tauriel heard a voice she had thought to never hear again. Joy surged through her body knowing whom it belonged to, hastening her awareness as she woke. 

“The healers are not mine to command _Pe-channas_. They are here to assist the most serious injuries of those that cannot heal themselves.” Legolas was not even bothering to disguise the tone of his annoyance with Kíli. “She heals quickly as we all do. There is no need to bother a healer who would be better serving another.”

“Oh fine job they are doing!” Sarcasm laced Kíli’s voice. Why did he sound insulting about elfish healing? “Fíli is up dancing a jig over how well they have done! Gandalf is with him now, celebrating their skills! And here I come to check on Tauriel and look - she too is rejoicing in good health!” Kíli’s undignified rant was cut short when Legolas spat a very nasty curse at him in Sindarin. 

“Will you two stop arguing? _Dôl nin..._ ”

The sound of Tauriel’s weary voice startled both the dwarf and the elf. They turned to face her. Identical masks of worry and concern decorated their faces. Tauriel might have laughed if she wasn’t feeling every bit of the beating she had just taken in her ribs and head. Her ribs were still tender and bruised, but the bones had healed themselves and she could breathe easier. Contrary to Kíli’s words, she could feel cloth bindings on her chest indicating someone had seen to her health. Her head ached at the back where her skull had cracked against stone.

She pushed up on her forearms, struggling to sit up, with the need to gain her bearings. She was obviously in a tent, one set up by Woodland elves if she had to guess from the furnishings. She lay on a long cot that was typically used for the wounded. The table to her left was filled with instruments and herbs for healing. Two elves bustled by the entrance carrying armfuls of bandages. Beyond the doorway, she could see more tents. Past that Tauriel could make out the shadowy skyline of Dale, indicating they were on the outskirts of the battlefield between the city and Erebor.

“Tauriel.” Legolas was at her side in an instant. Behind him, Kíli was glowering at the back of his head. The elven prince offered her a skin of water that she drank from until it was nearly empty. Tauriel slid it back into Legolas’s hands when she was done, shaking her head when he would have given more.

“How long was I out?” Tauriel lifted her hand to touch the back of her head. It ached where her fingers pressed into the half healed wound. Another day or two and it would be completely gone.

_“A day and a half too long, my friend; you worried your idiotic dwarf.”_ Legolas’s tone in Sindarin left little doubt he had no patience for Kíli. He set the water skin aside.

Tauriel was glad in that moment, that Kíli did not understand Sindarin. But she understood, and that was enough to upset her. _“You are right, Legolas. I do heal quickly.”_ She frowned. _“But Kíli is not an idiot. And you insult me when you call him such.”_

Legolas lifted a brow at her fierce tone, his eyes dilating the only sign her words bothered him as his sky blue eyes bored into hers. She didn’t break the stare even though his status demanded she should look away first, lowering her head in deference. Legolas was the Crown Prince of the Woodland Realm. But she was no longer a welcomed member of that realm as ordered by Thranduil.

_“You have changed Tauriel.”_

“War changes all people, Legolas,” Tauriel switched to the common tongue, transitioning easily enough. She chose her words carefully, not wanting to start an argument with her friend. Their relationship had been precariously different since she left Thranduil’s kingdom to chase after thirteen dwarves. 

No, that wasn’t true. The changes between herself and elf prince had started when Thranduil had voiced aloud the feelings his son had for her. Tauriel’s chest tightened in memory of that uncomfortable meeting in which the elven king had ordered her to give his son no hope to have his feelings returned. 

“No,” Legolas objected in Westron. Her attempt to placate him had his mouth pulling down in a frown. “You were changed long before Orcs attacked the gates of the Woodlands.” Legolas gestured towards Kíli. He switched back to Sindarin. _“He changed you!”_

The gazes of the two elves locked again. Tauriel didn’t deny Legolas’s charge. How could she deny the truth? Kíli had changed her, but not as Legolas seemed to presume. The urges had already been there, she had simply lacked the courage to defy her king and stand alone, against the darkness. But that had all changed when thirteen dwarrow fell out of the spiders’ nest. 

Kíli had opened her mind to the world beyond the borders of the forest. Long had she dreamt of seeing it before she even set eyes on the dwarf prince. When the forest had turned dark, wretched and wrong, Tauriel had petitioned the King’s help to prevent its spread - to no avail. Thranduil wanted only to endure the ever growing darkness, while Tauriel longed to fight it back to nothing. 

Kíli may have been the spark that ignited her certitude, but now that she had found it, Tauriel refused to put it out. 

When she did not respond to his vehement charge, Legolas made a noise of disgust and abruptly left the tent. Tauriel let out a shaky breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding in. She swallowed around a suddenly dry mouth, tears blurring her vision again.

Her friendship with Legolas had been tenuous the past few weeks, and now she wasn’t sure if it was broken entirely. How laughable that King Thranduil had gotten precisely what he wanted, when there had been nothing romantic between them in the first place. At least, not on her part. Legolas was her friend and a brother in her heart. Tauriel dropped her head, eyes closing as she tried to compose herself.

“Are you alright?” Kíli’s gentle question sounded from right in front of her. Tauriel opened her eyes to see he was standing before her.

“No.” She shook her head. Those stupid tears wouldn’t leave her eyes. Everything had been off kilter for her since the dwarrow company invaded her homelands. The ellon she considered a father figure had thrown her out, her most trusted friend was disgusted by her choices and she had nearly lost Kíli - twice. Too much had happened in what seemed the blink of an eye. Which it was to an elf like Tauriel, with her numerous years ahead of her.

“Is it because of him?” Kíli scowled, looking towards the entrance Legolas had departed from.

“Some of it.” Tauriel took a calming breath trying to resist the emotions threatening to overwhelm her. “And because of you.”

“Me?” He blinked and looked back at her.

“I thought you were dead,” Tauriel told him. From where she sat, Kíli was now the taller of the two but only by an inch or so. It was she who had to tilt her head slightly to speak to him. 

“So did I.” Kíli’s warm gaze met hers. “Rather, I had thought you were dead when that orc threw you off the side.” He took a step forward, crowding her space, his hand reaching up to tenderly cup the back of her head where it hit upon the rock. He pulled her head forward to examine it, his fingers sifting through her fiery strands. “Amazing,” he breathed. She pulled her head back.

“How fast you heal,” he explained at her questioning look. “Only hours ago you had a gash right here.” His fingers pressed into her hair drawing a line to demonstrate. Tauriel’s breath hitched at the intimacy of his touch, his palms brushing the tips of her ears. Although it was not on purpose, his caress had the effect of warming her from the top of her head, to the tips of her toes. His hand in her hair was entirely inappropriate. She should object. She really should.

“When I rolled Bolg off of you, I thought the worst had happened,” Tauriel confessed instead of scolding him for touching her so intimately. It was completely un-elf like and she was a bit embarrassed to find she liked it. 

“Squashed by an orc,” Kíli mused before nodding his head. “I do believe you’re right. There is nothing worse.”

Tauriel could not contain her peal of laughter. “Your mother is right Kíli. You are hopelessly reckless.”

“Then I suppose I am fortunate to have you around.” Kíli’s dark eyes twinkled with mirth. “Otherwise what would I do?”

They stared at each other; unspoken relief at each other being alive shared in that moment. Kíli’s levity faded, replaced by an affectionate stare. “I guess this is the third time I’ll thank you for saving me.” He had not replaced his grip on her hair, his fingers now gently caressing the skin of her neck. 

Tauriel’s face warmed in response to his touch. “Fourth.” Tauriel’s heart leapt in erratic beats in response to the heat that flared in his eyes as she licked her suddenly dry lips. Yes, quite inappropriate. She decided that she quite liked inappropriate.

His eyes flicked down to her lips, back to her eyes. Kíli moved his hand, releasing her hair to cup her cheek. His large thumb brushed away the track of a tear that had escaped her eye earlier. “The arrow only counts as one,” his voice was husky as he corrected her, leaning in closer.

“My mistake,” Tauriel murmured. Her eyes shifted to his lips as his face descended, her eyes fluttering closed at the last moment. Her skin tingled in anticipation of feeling his lips on hers.

A loud, forced cough sounded from the entrance of the tent.

_Or not._

Both elf and dwarf heads swiveled towards the sound. There stood a wizened old figure with long gray robes, a silver scarf, full gray beard and a tall crooked hat. “I do beg your pardon. I hate to interrupt such a pleasant sight after yesterday’s horrors.” His gruff voice conveyed a gracious apology. “But, I have finished my initial examination of your brother, Kíli, and we need to discuss it.” The apologetic tone had slid from his voice, grave seriousness replacing it.

Kíli went rigid in front of her. Tauriel reached up to take his hand away from her cheek, squeezing it in her own. “What is wrong, Kíli?” She glanced between the dwarf and the gray cloaked man. She could sense a large source of magical energy radiating from him that commanded a healthy, wary respect from her. 

_Wizard. Mithrandir._

She had heard stories of the gray wizard with his silver scarf and crooked hat. Tauriel had never met him, but there were not many elves who could claim to have no knowledge of him whatsoever. There had been rumors of his presence seen in the south of the Woodlands near Dôl Guldur, but it had been many centuries since that gossip had graced her ears. 

“It is my brother, Fíli,” Kíli turned away from Gandalf to address her question. His brow was heavy with worry as he said, “When they found him, he was still alive but barely. Your elfish healers have tried their magic and healing skills, but there is something wrong. I asked Gandalf to help him. I came to check on you while he saw to Fíli.”

Tauriel’s lips lifted in a tiny smile. “I thank you for your concern, Kíli.” She rose to her feet. “But, you should be with your brother. Shall you attend him?” 

“Come with us,” Kíli tugged gently on her hand, the one he still held. “There is nothing Gandalf will tell me that you should not be privy to.”

Tauriel glanced at Gandalf who gave no indication one way or the other of his approval or disapproval of her company. She inclined her head at Kíli. “Very well.” 

Reluctantly, Tauriel let go of Kíli’s hand before they left the tent, Gandalf leading the way. She had enjoyed the contact of their linked palms, but outside the tent there were many eyes that would disapprove of the sight of an elf and dwarf hand-in-hand. 

Fíli’s tent was not far from where Tauriel had woken. Kíli went in first, Tauriel following him as Gandalf held back the flap. Inside she recognized the healer dwarf from Esgaroth, his flattened trumpet hanging from a cord at his neck. _Óin._ Óin was sitting by Fíli’s side, using a soaked cloth to wipe the prince’s face and neck. There was another dwarf with a long white beard and dark red robes standing at Fíli’s head. She did not recall his name.

To say Fíli looked unwell was an understatement. His countenance was waxy, his skin pale and bloodless, as if death held him a breath away. Tauriel would have suspected he was dead, if not for a very subtle movement of his chest rising and falling. The Crown Prince’s upper chest was bared, a very long, heavily stitched, jagged black suture pronounced from his sternum to his hip. His right leg was bound in a splint as was one of his arms.

“What has happened to Fíli?” Tauriel nearly choked on her question. Inside the tent, the air felt heavy, thick; clogging her throat in its stagnancy. She moved to the side of the entryway, staying close to the outside with its fresher air. Gandalf ducked in and removed his crooked hat. The wizard followed Kíli over to Fíli’s side where he was laying on a cot similar to the one Tauriel had woken on.

“Azog,” Kíli ground the name out on a growl, sitting in an empty chair across from Óin. “Before he killed my uncle, he found my brother. His blade sliced through him and then Azog threw him off the ramparts, breaking his bones.” Kíli reached out for his brother’s uninjured arm, taking his hand and holding it.

Tauriel sucked back a gasp at the news of Kíli’s uncle. “Thorin Oakenshield has fallen? Truly?” She could recall the regal bearing and fierce glares given to her as she walked past his cell in the dungeons. She crossed her arms in front of her, a chill racing down her spine that had nothing to do with her memory of him. What she knew of Thorin, from the mouth of his kin, the king would not have easily fell.

“It is true,” Gandalf’s solemn confirmation answered her question. The aged wizard shifted and then settled down into a chair next to Óin’s. His gaze turned to Fíli. “And I fear that another son of Durin may fall.”

Tauriel turned her gaze on Fíli, making a quick diagnosis on what she could see, smell and hear. The sound of his heartbeat in his chest was faster than it should be, spiking every few seconds. She could smell rust and salt, mixed with sweat that indicated a fever. It was odd to think he had a fever, which should have pinked his skin, instead of his deathly pallor. Her sharp eyes zeroed in on the source of the rust and salt smell. Blood. His sutures were saturated with blood. Fresh blood.

“Why is he still bleeding?” Tauriel glanced between the three males, her brow puckered in consternation. Elves had better healing magic than what she could see had been managed of Fíli’s wounds.

“He still bleeds from his sutures even though they are stitched tight. His wounds don’t respond to the best elvish healing and there have been quite a few in to see him.” It was the red-robed dwarf who answered her question, a short silence punctuating his words. ”Eighteen at my last count. Not one of them has been able to knit his bones back together. They come and leave within five minutes of coming near him, pale and exhausted of all attempts to heal him.” 

“That is why I asked Gandalf to help him, Balin. Just as he helped Thorin.” Kíli’s dark, worried gaze landed on Gandalf. “Can you heal him?” 

“That, my friend, is exactly what I have been asking myself. And I find myself unsure of the answer.” 

“What do you mean Gandalf? Can you not heal him?”

“I don’t know, Kíli. After my initial examination, I find that there are forces here that may be beyond my capability. Certainly beyond that of the elves.” 

Tauriel met Kíli’s glance, her confusion over the wizard’s statement mirrored in his.

“Somehow this is all tied to Dôl Guldur.” Gandalf’s brow wrinkled as he puzzled it out. “I found your grandfather Thráin in that tainted place.”

Kíli’s jaw hung slack as did Balin’s and Óin’s. Tauriel did not know the reason for their mimicked expressions until Balin exclaimed, “But he is dead!” 

“He is,” Gandalf agreed. “Now. He was not dead when I found him there.” He let them absorb that fact before continuing. “When I arrived at Dôl Guldur there was an enchantment concealing the evil within. A powerful necromancer had taken residence within the cursed city and he held Thráin hostage.”

“I did not recognize your grandfather at first, nor did he know me. He was like a wild animal, in the thrall of a dark sickness that poisoned his mind. He fought me until I cast the sickness away.” Every now and then, Gandalf paused to take a breath, his slow, deliberate voice pained as if dreading what he had to say. “We were to escape Dôl Guldur together but the shadow of the enemy blocked the gates and consumed Thráin before I could save him.”

Tauriel paced in front of the door, wishing nothing more than to step out into the night air, agitation stirring her blood. The wizard was confirming every suspicion she had of the evil plaguing the Greenwood, tainting it into the murky darkness that had caused men to call it Mirkwood. It spawned from that southern tip as she had thought, but she hadn’t known the true depth of the poison that resided there.

Kíli looked disconcerted. Balin had tears in his eyes at the news of his cousin’s death.

“I have been thinking upon Thráin’s state of mind - how he had been tainted with the dark one’s evil,” Gandalf continued. He looked directly at Kíli. “I also asked myself how it is that morgul poison spread through Kíli when none of Aulë’s children had ever been affected by it before?”

Kíli’s brows drew together trying to figure out the importance to Gandalf’s question. Balin was rubbing his face to his arm, wiping away tears. It was Óin who answered Gandalf’s question as he continued to wipe down Fíli’s head. “Dwarrow do not fall to the corruption of Mordor as elves and men do.”

“Three sons of Durin have now been touched by it. And I am trying to understand why.” 

Tauriel sucked in a shocked gasp. Gandalf’s knowing gaze met her horrified one. “You can sense it can’t you?” He nodded his head towards Fíli. “Even now, you shy away from him as all your brethren have.”

“Sense what?” Kíli looked lost between the wizard’s statement and the way Tauriel paced like a caged animal in front of the door.

It was getting harder to breathe the longer she stayed near Fíli and now the elleth understood why with Gandalf’s inference. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to stand still, for Kíli’s sake. Tauriel was sure her eyes looked as apprehensive as Gandalf’s as she turned to face him. “There is a shadow of malevolence hovering here with your brother’s fea. It poisons his body, leaching his spirit and robbing him of his soul.”

Tauriel winced as his beautiful, brown eyes widened in shock. Kíli’s gaze snapped to his brother’s face, disbelief and grief replacing all other emotions. 

She watched helplessly as he reeled from the heavy blow she had just delivered. She longed to run to him. To hug him and to console him. Instead she was pitifully inert, locked by long held prejudices and her own weakness against the oppressive sorcery that charged the tent.

“If this is some evil from a Morgul blade, then let the elf heal him!” Óin was looking at Tauriel as he said this. “She healed Kíli. She can do it for his brother.”

It was Gandalf who answered the healer. “It is not the same. The venality is strong; and it is not like the morgul poison shaft that pierced Kíli.” The wizard’s gaze fell upon the young prince, speaking directly to him. “Whatever has hold of your brother is...”

“Old.” Tauriel supplied the word when Gandalf seemed speechless to name it. “The air in here is foul with corrupt magic, sucking in all that is bright.” She turned her face to the side, trying to breathe in the fresher air from outside as her stomach began twisting. Óin had said her kinfolk had been in and left in less than five minutes. Tauriel wasn’t sure how much longer she could stand to be near Fíli. 

“Is there nothing you can do?” Tears poured from Kíli’s eyes as he stroked his brother’s palm. “Am I just to sit here and watch my brother die, Gandalf?” He lifted his gaze to look at the wizard.

Gandalf chewed on his lip, considering Kíli’s question. Several tense minutes passed in which the only sounds that could be heard were muted conversations from outside the tent and the splash of water as Óin continually wet and wrung out the cloth he used on Fíli’s fever.

“I will try,” Gandalf finally said. “I shall need you to stand back.” He rose to his feet. 

Kíli smoothed back a lock of hair from Fíli’s forehead. Leaning down he whispered something in the dwarvish language to his brother before reluctantly letting go of his hand. He stepped away from Fíli’s body and joined Tauriel near the entrance. Óin tossed his cloth into the bucket of water, moving it and himself to another corner of the tent. Balin heaved a great sigh before joining Kíli’s other side.

Gandalf put his hand out over Fíli’s body, closing his eyes and muttering in a strange, mystical language. Tauriel heard every enunciation with her keen ears, but she did not understand the words he spoke. She could feel the gathering of power behind the spell he was casting. It was pushing against the onerous energy that came from Fíli.

Fíli lay still as death until the third repetitive incantation, when suddenly his whole body jerked. She felt a jolt next to her, Kíli reacting to his brother’s movement. As Gandalf continued, the great wizard’s voice increased from a quiet murmur to a modulated edict. Fíli’s body responded to Gandalf’s magic, violently jerking and thrashing with each invocation, popping sutures open. Blood oozed from the newly opened wounds, running in rivulets down the Prince’s sides.

“What are you doing?!? Stop! You’re hurting him!” 

Tauriel caught Kíli’s shoulders before he could run to Fíli, wrapping her arms around his neck. He fought her hold, clawing at her hands with desperation. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, holding on as tight as she could. She would have lost him if not for Balin throwing his arm across Kíli’s chest and harshly commanding, “Be still! He is helping your brother!” 

Kíli stopped struggling. Tauriel eased her grip only slightly on him. They watched as Fíli continued to toss, turn and jerk upright. Kíli trembled beneath her arms and she squeezed his shoulders to let him know she was there for him. His hand reached up to squeeze her forearm locked over his collarbone.

Gandalf’s spell reached a raucous crescendo, every word that left his lips an austere command, demanding an answer. He now held two hands over Fíli’s flailing visage, a brilliant glow captured between his palms. The pulse of power and light increased as the wizard’s voice did until it was almost blinding.

Tauriel became aware of a sound that started like a soft, but annoying buzz. She thought it came from the wizard, but the sound changed, swiftly becoming a penetrating, shrill cacophony juxtaposed by the wizard’s voice. The din gained in volume, shrieking and whining in a high squeal, painfully drowning out all other sound. With a soft cry, she let go of Kíli to cover her ears.

Kíli whirled to face her, concern etched across his face. His lips moved but she could not hear him over the noise. He tried to move her hands and she jerked away from him so that he could not. Not that it mattered. Even with her ears covered, the discord continued to swell, overwhelming her senses with its frenzied cadence. Tauriel’s knees buckled and she fell to the ground, a shaft of pain ripping through her head, like someone thrust a burning blade into her skull.

Kíli knelt next to her, shouting something to Balin she couldn’t make out above the clamor that ruled her senses. Pain flared through her, her ribs feeling as if they were re-breaking from where she had recently healed. Kíli turned towards Gandalf and she knew he was shouting but she still could not hear his voice. The dwarf prince blanched and shot to his feet. Bleary-eyed, Tauriel followed his line of sight seeking the source of his shock. She reeled upon seeing Fíli’s mouth open; a thick, shimmering, black mist curling outward from his lips. The harsh dissonance resounded from _him!_

Gandalf made one final flourish and released his spell. He cupped his hand over Fíli’s mouth and pushed the bright, white light inside the dwarf. Abruptly the jagged symphony fell silent. Tauriel collapsed as the sound quit, her taut body releasing like an arrow from a quiver. Her breath came in ragged gasps, body trembling as she tried to recover.

Silence. Blessed silence. 

Brief silence.

An explosion of hellish harmony burst forth from Fíli in a screaming composition of malicious mist. It surged over Gandalf, hurtling him away from the Crown Prince. Óin quickly caught Gandalf before he fell, the wizard as gray as his moniker, as he sank to his knees.

Tauriel cowered on the ground, curling up in a fetal position, screaming as she was bombarded once again by the sound. She pressed her fists to her ears. Nothing she could do would stop the incessant frenzy invading her head, pain erupting everywhere the sound touched. Warm wetness spurted through her fingertips, 

She would do anything to make it stop - gouge out her eyes, tear off her ears, rip her skin from her bones. Anything. To die would be more pleasant than to live in this agony.

And just as she wished for death, all was silent once more.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> ** werth - Traitors  
> **Pe-channas - Idiot  
> **Amrâlimê – Beloved
> 
> Author’s Notes:
> 
> **Weta is the manufacturer/designer of Tauriel’s daggers. For fun, I put their company name in one of those online “Get your elfish name” translators and it translated their name to Oldhinor. I liked it and decided to use it in this fanfiction as the maker of Tauriel’s daggers.
> 
> **A wonderful fanfiction author by the name of Gefionne from AO3 directed me to elfish and dwarf language websites along with words collected from a Sindarin dictionary to create the dialogue in dwarf and elf for this story. http://www.realelvish.net/middle-earthdialogue.php & http://www.meryrose.altervista.org/html/modules.php?name=Khuzdul#family


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Gefionne and Bookworm624 for beta-ing this chapter. Thank you again to my cousin for pre-read. See end chapter for more notes (if you're nerdy like me and read them). Thank you to all who left reviews or kudos! Reviews keep the authors going more than anything else! I even like them in other languages because I use google translate to read them!

Fíli and Kíli. Kíli and Fíli.

Where Fíli went, Kíli naturally followed. Their mother had sworn them to be attached at the hip since the day she gave birth to her second son. 

_“If they didn’t look so different, I’d swear they were twins.”_ Thorin had been fond of saying that in their younger days, watching Kíli copy everything his older brother did.

There were days when their mother Dís, in a fit of temper, would mix up her own son’s names while yelling at them.

_“Always tie the legs together first before cleaving the head! I told you to tie up that hen’s legs! Now it’s done run off headless into the woods and my stew hasn’t got any meat Fíli!"_

_“Maam, I’m Kíli!”_

_“I know that! Don’t you think I know my own sons’ names?”_

It had always just been he and his brother, looking out for one another. They had taken up arms together at their uncle’s behest and journeyed on a quest to reclaim a kingdom with an uncertain conclusion. Combined they were a strong force, facing down trolls, rock giants, goblins, orcs, and wargs with only a small amount of fear hindering their courage. 

Now, with his brother hanging in the balance between life and death - Kíli was terrified.

“What are you doing? Stop!” Kíli demanded of Gandalf, “You’re hurting him!”

“Be still! He’s helping your brother!”

Kíli stopped struggling in Tauriel’s arms as Balin’s words sunk through the terror that clawed his chest. He fell limp against her, not able to enjoy having her arms around him. He was too worried for the way Fíli’s body jerked and bent as if he were a puppet on a string. Kíli shook with helplessness, torn between fury and fear for his brother.

He felt Tauriel squeeze his shoulders in support and Kíli laid his hand on her forearm in response. He had to trust Gandalf knew what he was doing. It wasn’t easy to stay still when every instinct in him screamed to defend his brother, to hurl himself against Gandalf and the spell that was supposed to be healing Fíli - not twisting his brother’s body unnaturally.

Gandalf was nearly shouting his spell, a ball of light flaring between his palms. Kíli squinted against the light, wanting to keep an eye on his brother. Around his shoulders, Tauriel’s grip slackened and then dropped completely. He didn’t spare a glance until he heard an agonized cry from behind him. 

The elf was hunched over, her face was near his own; her eyes squeezed shut as if she were in pain. Her hands were over her large, pointed ears although he didn’t understand why. “Tauriel! What is it?” She didn’t answer him. He reached out to move her hands away from her ears and she jerked away from his touch, falling to the ground, curling into herself.

“What’s happening?!” Kíli shouted his question to Balin. He knelt next to Tauriel, laying a hand on her shoulder to try to soothe her. Panic flared through him at the keening that escaped her lips at his touch. He looked back at Balin for an answer and saw that the royal advisor was staring open-mouthed at the table where Fíli was. Kíli followed his gaze, bolting upright and choking on his gasp.

Fíli was sitting up, or rather his body was. His eyes were open, his pupils dilated so that they were completely black. His mouth was open; a strange mist - darker and denser than pipe weed smoke unfurled from within. 

“What is _that?_ ” Balin’s face was as pale as his beard.

“What have you done to my brother?” Kíli snarled at the same time. 

Gandalf shouted his final incantation and brought his palms down on Fíli’s open mouth, burying the spell between his brother’s lips. He stepped back from Fíli, looking at his brother expectantly. Below him, Kíli saw Tauriel relax.

Fíli’s mouth fell open, that dense dark shadow pouring forth, flaring from his brother and into the tent. Tauriel screamed, shrinking in response to an unknown attack, clutching her head. Gandalf was blown off his feet, thrown backwards by the phantom. Óin jumped forward, breaking Gandalf’s fall, the two sinking to the ground together.

Heart pounding, Kíli turned to check on Tauriel. Blood seeped around her fingers where she held them over her ears. Kíli let out a few, choice swear words in Khuzdul. Whatever attacked his beloved, he was positive it came from his brother. Only it wasn’t his brother - it was the thing possessing him.

Screams and panicked cries filtered in from outside the tent, similar to the ones coming from Tauriel. Kíli’s gut twisted, uncertain how to stop this. Fíli would know what to do; he always knew instinctively what needed to be done. If only his brother were here.

_But I am here._

It was as if his brother’s voice whispered into his ear, but that could not be! Kíli twisted back towards Fíli for confirmation. He had just imagined it - Fíli was still prostrate with the darkness controlling him.

And yet Kíli felt as if his brother was trying to guide his thinking, even now. No matter what possessed Fíli, Kíli knew his brother was still in there somewhere inside himself. Gandalf has said as much. So had Tauriel. The voice had said it. Kíli just had to wake his brother up. To help them all.

Tamping down his fear of the creature inside Fíli, Kíli streaked forward through the blackness, surprised when it did not attack him as it had Gandalf. He took advantage of his luck, daring to grab his brother’s face between his palms. _“Demup telek menu Fíli! Marnat-am! Marnat-am!”_

Fíli’s jaw closed with an audible snap. Just as abruptly, the misty menace dissipated all around. Between his palms, Fíli’s taut body went slack and Kíli caught him before he fell backwards. He didn’t know when tears had gathered in his eyes, but they loosened upon his cheeks as he gently laid his brother back on the cot.

Kíli stroked Fíli’s tawny hair, examining the damage his brother - _No! Not Fíli!_ \- the damage that the thing inside Fíli had caused. The sutures on his chest would need to be resewn. The ones not already torn were straining at the seams. The splints on his arm and leg were still in place, but they would need to be tightened.

“Gandalf! Gandalf!” A familiar voice and hurried footsteps announced the arrival of the company’s burglar. “Gandalf! Come quick! The elves-”

Bilbo skidded to a stop just inside the tent. He looked from Gandalf, gasping and trembling in Óin’s arms, to Kíli hovered over Fíli’s body. Finally his gaze landed on Tauriel, knelt on the ground, staring in shock, at the blood staining her hands. Even Balin, who usually couldn’t be fazed by anything, was pale and shaken.

“Oh!” The hobbit’s mouth rounded in surprise.

“What about the elves?” Óin was the only one of them to be able to address the reason for Bilbo’s appearance.

“They’ve collapsed! All over the camp! Everyone’s in a tizzy. Nobody knows what is happening to them!”

Gandalf opened his mouth as if to speak. Long, hacking coughs violently shook his frame, forcefully expelling in wrenching gasps. Óin gently rubbed the wizard’s back stating, “Bilbo, find him something to drink please. Balin, find a chair for the elf-maid. Kíli, ease off your brother and give him some room to breathe lad.” Quickly the healer took charge of them all.

Kíli reluctantly left Fíli’s side. “He needs to be stitched again Óin.”

“Yes, yes, I’ll do it.” Óin was helping Gandalf to a chair. Bilbo departed the tent to look for the item requested. Balin picked up the chair Óin had been using, shuffling over to Tauriel and setting it next to her.

Kíli and Balin both helped the elleth to her feet before sitting her down into the chair. Kíli’s heart lurched when he saw the blood streaking her hair, from where it had leaked out of her ears. “Balin can you get me the bucket?” he glanced at his uncle’s advisor who nodded once. 

“Are you all right?” Kíli took her hands, lifting them to examine the blood staining her palms and fingers. It would easily wash off. “Tauriel?” He lifted his eyes to look into hers, inhaling a breath at the dazed stare she returned to him.

“Tauriel?” He shook her arms to bring her back to attention. “Are you well? Answer me!”

Bilbo ducked into the tent, a flask in his hands. He hurried over to Gandalf pressing the pilfered item into his hands. “Drink this, my friend.”

“Watch him,” Óin instructed Bilbo. “Not too much right away. He’s had a very nasty shock to his system.” The dwarf healer left Gandalf’s side, moving to address Kíli’s brother’s wounds.

Kíli glanced over at Gandalf briefly to see the wizard’s hand shaking as he lifted the skin to his lips to drink. Anxiety froze his innards. If the second most powerful wizard in Middle Earth was unglued by what happened, what could that mean for Fíli?

“Here,” Balin set the bucket and rag that Óin had used for Fíli, down in front of Kíli and Tauriel. Kíli reached down to wet the cloth, wringing it out. He started with Tauriel’s palms, wiping the blood away.

“Tauriel?” He tried to get her to respond as he worked, wringing out the pink tinged cloth. “What happened to you?” She was silent. “Tauriel?” He repeated her name several times with the same nonresponse.

Kíli threw the rag into the bucket. Grabbing her shoulders he shook them, pushing his face in front of hers. “ _Amrâlimê!_ Can you hear me? Tauriel!”

She blinked, once and then twice. 

Relieved to see even the slightest response, Kíli let go of her shoulders. He pretended not to notice Balin staring at him in shock, no doubt in response to the Khuzdul he had used in front of his beloved. “Tauriel?” He tilted her chin to look at him.

“What happened to her?” And the other elves?” Bilbo’s curly head looked back and forth between the occupants of Fíli’s tent seeking an answer.

Tauriel suddenly made a strangled noise, dragging Kíli’s attention back to her. Her hazel eyes wildly darted in panic, looking for an escape. Her gaze landed on Fíli and she recoiled, as if the sight of him sent a shock through her.

“No!” She cried, turning the chair over as she scrambled backwards, only the grace of the Firstborn kept her upright instead of landing head over feet.

“Tauriel! It’s all right! You’ve nothing to fear!” Kíli grabbed for her, catching her wrists and holding them steady.

She shook her head vehemently, her scarlet curls shimmering with the movement.

“No! The sound. The sound. The song.” The elleth made no sense as she tugged, trying to free herself from his grip. “The song, Kíli. The song. Wrong song. Bad notes. Hurts.” Kíli’s dark brows drew together in confusion. Her babbling made as much sense as when the brown wizard, Radagast, would ramble off into one of his odd monologues.

“What on Middle-earth is she talking about? What sound? What song?” Bilbo’s voice broke through the repetitive murmuring of the elf-maid. 

Kíli shrugged helplessly. He heard no song. Balin and Óin looked clueless as well. 

“Fíli’s song.” Kíli felt the shudder that shook Tauriel’s frame through his hold on her slender wrists.

“Fíli!?”

“What nonsense is this?” Balin cried out. “The elf lass is addled. She isn’t thinking clearly.”

“Or she hears something we cannot. Elves have keen ears.” Trust a Baggins to have some sense.

“So does a dwarf!” Balin protested.

Kíli looked between his brother and Tauriel trying to understand what happened. He could feel the misery writ across his face as he glanced up at Tauriel, seeking answers for questions he didn’t know how to ask.

She stopped trying to escape his hold. Returning his gaze, her mouth turned down, she stated plainly, “Fíli’s song, it hurts.”

“It was not Fíli’s song.” Gandalf’s voice was hoarse and shaky as he finally spoke. His next words threw another layer of unease on the already tense room. “It was the melody of Morgoth, the spirit inside your brother.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“It is impossible!” Balin denied, pacing around Gandalf in agitation.

“Yes, of course it is,” Gandalf agreed, his voice cracking only slightly. “Then again, it is not.”

“Well, which is it?” Balin stopped in front of Gandalf, hands crooked on his hips imperiously. “Yes or no?”

“Yes?” Gandalf seemed to tell Balin what he wanted to hear, because the white bearded dwarf relaxed. “Only no.”

Kíli was tired of hearing them argue back and forth. “Will you two stop!?” He could not keep the temper from his voice as he demanded, “Explain yourself Gandalf!”

“There’s no need to yell, he is only trying to help.” 

“Not now Bilbo!” Kíli scowled at the hobbit who managed to look affronted by the dwarf prince’s misplaced anger. Kíli hovered over Fíli, watching anxiously as Óin worked on repairing the sutures.

It seemed only a moment had passed since Gandalf’s grim proclamation, although it was much longer than that. During that time, Óin began sewing Fíli’s sutures closed again.

Kíli was torn between overseeing the work done to his brother’s injuries and helping Tauriel with her wounds. Currently, the elf was using the rag and bucket to clean her ears. She hadn’t spoken since the wizard’s news, absently staring into the space in front of her. Kíli couldn’t begin to guess what she was thinking about Gandalf’s announcement.

Bilbo seemed to be the only one who didn’t understand the gravity of the announcement. “Who or what is Morgoth?” he had asked.

“A great evil,” replied Gandalf. “Long ago he was banished to the forgotten void, never to return to Middle-Earth.”

“Oh, him.” Bilbo nodded his head as if in understanding. A moment later he shook it. “No, no. Never heard of him.”

“He is the creator of all that is evil,” Gandalf continued. “He is the one who defied Eru Ilúvatar and corrupted the creation of all we know. When the Father of all began the Music of the Ainur to create Arda it was Morgoth who interrupted the music with his own subterfuge. He brought about the first evil to the world.”

When Bilbo still looked confused, Gandalf added, “He is the father of orcs, trolls and all manner of vile, nasty creatures.” Bilbo’s face turned a pasty shade as understanding finally dawned.

“We all know the legends Gandalf,” Balin interrupted. “Great evil poured forth from the earth, the battle was waged for dominance by the Valar and Morgoth made a second in command. He became known as Sauron, the deceiver. But how is this relevant? They were both defeated!”

“Yes,” Gandalf nodded at Balin. “Morgoth fell into the void, but always he seeks a way to return to Middle Earth.” The elder wizard’s gaze landed on Fíli. “And now he has found it.”

“That’s what’s in Fíli?” Bilbo cried aghast. Kíli’s stomach lurched as did his heart.

“It is not possible!” Balin protested again. “No dwarf has ever been taken hold by evil. Even Sauron could not deceive us with the seven rings-”

“The ring,” Gandalf said. “It is because of the seven rings that I believe this has happened.” 

Balin made a noise of disbelief. 

“Specifically, I speak of the ring that belongs to the line of Durin.” Gandalf continued speaking. “When I found Thráin in Dôl Guldur, the ring that he possessed was missing from his finger. It had been taken from him by the enemy, and used, I suspect, to do this very thing. It should be impossible, but it appears it is not.”

The tent was charged with silence as the dwarves and hobbit listened to the wizard explain. “The spell I cast was meant to seek Fíli’s spirit and sever the link between him and the one who latched on to him. It is the only way to begin to heal him properly. At first I could not find either, but then I found him.”

Gandalf turned his gaze to Kíli. “Your brother is still in there, he said, immeasurable grief relayed in his tone. “I saw him on a vast wasteland of winter. Fíli’s soul did not see me, but he is aware there is something there with him and he’s fighting it. He was holding his blades, strong and true against the enemy.”

Kíli, shaken by all that was revealed, brightened at that bit of news. “Aye, that’s Fíli. He does not give up without a fight,” Kili’s said with a proud grin. Balin nodded in agreement with him. Óin humphed quietly, but even his dark eyes were hopeful at Gandalf’s words.

“I was reaching out to Fíli when I saw the form of the enemy before him,” Gandalf said. “A large shadow, twice as large as the tallest man or elf stood before Fíli. The shadow was surrounded by a cloak of ice and bedecked with a crown of smoke. In his clutches, he held the ring of Durin. 

The Black Foe saw me and the flame of his gaze pierced right into my heart. He knew every thought I had even though I said naught. He knew I was there to remove him from Fíli, and that is when he struck me, expelling me quite forcefully.”

A chill ran down Kíli’s spine.

Bilbo was shaking his head, his curls bobbing madly about his face. “And how does this explain all the elves collapsing? What about the song that she speaks of?” He gestured towards Tauriel.

“The melody of Morgoth,” Gandalf said to Bilbo, naming it. “The first children of Ilúvatar were the elves, and they awoke hearing the last of the symphony of the Ainur as they placed the final star in the sky of Arda. The elves can still hear the songs; they simply have not been sung in a very long time.

“The melody of Morgoth has one singular purpose; to disrupt the will of Ilúvatar and turn the creation of Arda to his own dark vision. Pain, chaos. It is the only thing he wishes for. What came out of Fíli was meant to change those who could hear it-those with the light of the Eldar. He has done it before, transforming elves into the corrupted creatures now called Orcs.”

Kíli saw Tauriel flinch. Her hands were clenched around the rag, holding it to her lap. He moved away from Fíli, reaching the elf-maid’s side in a few strides. He didn’t care who saw him pry the rag from her hands and lace his fingers with hers. He had almost lost her too many times for petty grievances to stand in the way of comforting her.

“Is that why nobody else could hear it?” Bilbo asked. 

Gandalf nodded his assent. “Morgoth is much more powerful than Sauron, even with his power diminished to the void. We are very lucky that Fíli is a strong dwarf. Had he been a man or worse an elf…” Gandalf’s words trailed off and Kíli was grateful he didn’t finish his thought. 

_Fíli would be dead._

Tamping down the morbid thought, Kíli wouldn’t let himself think that way. Instead he posed the question that he had wanted to ask Gandalf since the first revelation, “What now Gandalf? What happens to my brother?”

“I wish I could give you the answer to the question Kíli. Truly I do.” Gandalf heaved a quiet sigh. “But I will have to consult with those wiser than myself to figure it out. I will need to take my leave for a few days.”

“You can’t leave Fíli!” Kíli protested.

“Where is this council you seek?” Balin asked.

Gandalf held up a hand for silence. “Morgoth is not at his full strength or your brother would be gone already. As it is, the world is in grave danger of his return. Should others find out the threat he poses, your brother’s life will be forfeit even with my help.”

Kíli blanched at the thought. His grip tightened around Tauriel’s hand, her own fingers squeezing his. 

“Gandalf, where do you go?” Bilbo asked looking nervous at the prospect. Kíli didn’t blame him. Every time the wizard had left them to their own devices, trouble seemed to follow.

“Worry not my friend,” said Gandalf. “I do not journey far, only to Mirkwood Forest. I will return as soon as I can. In the meantime...” He looked to the three dwarves, his gaze landing on Kíli. “With your brother in this condition and your uncle gone, it falls to you to take charge Kíli; it is to be expected. You must negotiate with Thranduil and Bard to clear the battlefield. Help them tend to the wounded and dead. You will also prepare to bury your uncle among his forefathers. You must carry on as if nothing is amiss. Can you accomplish this, young Kíli?”

Gandalf’s request settled as a yoke upon Kíli’s shoulders. It weighed heavy on his mind and heart. Wearing the mantle of leadership had never been his purpose. As Thorin’s heir, that was Fíli’s role; to bear the responsibilities and the duties that came with the crown. And Kíli could not imagine anyone greater to do it. Definitely not himself.

_“We are Durin’s folk. Fíli, Kíli, you come from a long line of great kings who can hold their heads proud in the Halls of Mandos. One day, you too shall do great things for our people and you will join our fathers in the privilege of your own great deeds.”_

Thorin had spoken the words long ago when Kíli was barely fifteen and Fíli had been twenty-two. The boys had been sharing a quiet winter’s night with their uncle; sitting in front of a fire, listening to Thorin recite the histories of their forefathers. Kíli swallowed around the lump that appeared in his throat, knowing he would never hear his uncle’s voice again.

Because of his uncle’s repetitive teachings, Kíli knew every deed his forefathers had accomplished. From Durin the Deathless’ establishment of Khazad-dûm all the way to his great-grandfather, Thrór, who claimed Erebor after the dragons of the north, ravaged their homelands in the Misty Mountains. Thorin would be added to the tales now, his death synonymous with the reclamation of the lonely mountain and the death of Smaug.

Durin’s legacy demanded Kíli contribute his own influence in their history, however small it may be.

Kíli heard himself speak as if he were standing outside of his body. “I can do it.” He would. For his uncle, but mostly for his brother.

“We will help him through it,” said Balin, clapping his shoulder heartily. “You’re not alone in this, lad.”

Gandalf chewed his lip a moment before giving a small smile at Kíli. “Then it is done.”

The smile did little to comfort Kíli.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They had moved Fíli into Erebor at Gandalf’s request. His brother was squirreled away in a healing room that very few people had access to. Only the company of dwarves who claimed the mountain with Thorin, along with Bilbo knew of Fíli’s whereabouts. Not even Tauriel knew. Kíli would have told her, but she had requested ignorance to keep his brother safe from the outside influence of her people. What she did not know, they could not get from her. He appreciated her all the more, for protecting Fíli.

To outsiders, it was told that Crown Prince needed time to fully recover from the battle. There had been inquiries over the affliction that had struck the elves, unease over the possibility of it happening again. Gandalf had a hand in quieting the investigation by misdirecting the attention of Thranduil and Bard to the south; blaming the attack on the elves by the hand of Mordor, where Sauron had just assumed his seat of power. Bard had accepted the explanation without questions. Thranduil had remained slightly suspicious but did not pursue the matter.

That had all occurred three days ago. It had been the longest three days of Kíli’s life. He was exhausted and tired from sleepless nights spent near his brother’s bedside. If he did manage to catch a few minutes of sleep, his dreams were filled with nightmares involving the battle. Kíli had seen everyone he cared about die in his dreams - his uncle, his brother, Tauriel, even his mother though she’d been nowhere near the battle. 

In the daylight hours he tried to focus on the tasks that Gandalf had charged him with. Clearing the battlefield was no easy feat, but it was the easiest of the tasks assigned. Any survivors who were physically able, sifted through the bodies, sorting foe from friend and wounded from the dead, the latter to receive proper death rights. Orcs, goblins, and wargs were not awarded any burial rights, simply piled as high as they could be lifted and set afire to burn.

The healing of the wounded was best left to those who had the skill. Kíli listened to daily reports of the wounded - who was healing, who had succumbed to their wounds and newly discovered survivors taken to the healing tents - all with half an ear. His first concern was his brother, although there was little that could be done with Fíli until Gandalf returned. 

Preparing for his uncle’s burial, was fifty times more difficult than anything Kíli had expected. 

His uncle would be buried in the Hall of Ascension, where the ancestors of the Durin line dwelled in their deaths. Teams had been assigned to clearing a pathway to burial hall that would not take visitors past the tempting treasure horde that had caused the battle. Smaug’s treasure room, as Kíli thought of it, was under heavy guard of Dain’s best watchmen. They were there to ensure nobody was foolish enough to steal from the treasury while the rest of the kingdom was busy with other duties.

“It is a shame that neither Thrór, nor Thráin, shall be buried here,” Balin’s head was tilted back as he looked up at the high ceiling in the Hall of Ascension.

When they had uncovered the hall on the fourth level below the mountain, Kíli had been surprised at its grandeur. Thorin had often regaled his nephews of the splendid architecture that had been Durin’s home. To see the tall, imposing columns carved with powerful Khuzdul symbols, it had awed the second prince into silence. The tombs of his ancestors were solid stone, inlaid with intricately carved metal and finely crafted jewels. Each tomb bore the name of his ancestor upon it in Khuzdul.

Kíli had been joined by Dwalin and Balin, the former directing a group of dwarves that were seeing to cleaning the dust and dirt off every crack and crevice. Smaug’s decimation of the mountain had been spared in this room. The fire wyrm had not desecrated the graves of Kíli’s ancestor, but the years had encrusted the room in a thick layer of grime that would require elbow grease to remove properly. 

Kíli had laid a comforting hand on Balin’s shoulder. The older man was shedding tears for Thrór and Thráin, both of whom Kíli regretted not knowing. Thrór had been killed in battle before Fíli or Kíli had been born and his son Thráin had been presumed dead for just as long.

“I have no doubt they have opened arms in welcome, to Thorin in Mandos, where they will be sharing a tankard of ale for his arrival.” Kíli squeezed Balin’s shoulder tightly as he spoke the words. 

Balin smiled at Kíli through his tears. “Aye. Your grandfather knew how to drink something fierce. He gave me and my brother our first ales as young lads. Laughed himself into a fit when our insides curdled the next day from excess.”

Kíli laughed. “I remember my first drink,” he mused, thinking back. “Fíli and I pilfered a barrel out of Old Haskell’s cellars. He must have had dozens of barrels down there, just hoarding them. We took the barrel behind the forge and drunk up half of it before Thorin caught us. He made us take it back to Haskell and we had to work for the old man an entire week to set it to rights.”

Balin chuckled. “That does sound like your uncle. Before -” Balin cut off his own words, but Kíli knew what he meant.

Kíli nodded his head, his throat clogging up at the memory of his uncle’s madness. “Before.” Before the dragon sickness got hold of Thorin, the search for the Arkenstone twisting him. The gold lust had changed his uncle, turning him into a vain, cruel, overbearing tyrant who cared nothing about the welfare of the dwarves that helped him win back his home. 

He reached up to brush away the tears that came unbidden at the last fond memory he had of his uncle. There had been that moment of clarity in the halls when his uncle had finally come back to himself, though Kíli had not yet known it as he unleashed his anger at his uncle. Thorin had smiled at him and then touched his forehead to Kíli, asking for forgiveness in that singular moment Kíli knew he would never forget as long as he lived.

“Come Balin,” Kíli squeezed his shoulder once more and said, “We have much work to do for tomorrow before the burial. Thorin has been cleaned but we still need to pick out his arraignment for burial.”

Balin wiped his face of tears on his sleeve. “Something trimmed in fur. He always liked his mantle trimmed in fur.”

“And blue.” Kíli added.

“That’s your favorite color,” Balin objected.

“Only because it was Thorin’s,” Kíli grinned, leading Balin out of the hall. “And we both look fine in such a royal color!”

Indeed it was a fitting color, Kíli thought to himself, after they had dressed his uncle’s body. Thorin’s fur lined cloak of blue velvet gave him the same regal bearing in death that he had possessed while alive. Under that he wore full mail and armor befitting his ending as a warrior fallen in battle. Upon his brow was the crown of Erebor. 

Kíli had reservations about putting the crown on his uncle. Balin had said it was necessary, but the sight haunted the second prince, reminding him of the last time his uncle had been wearing it. When the dragon sickness had been alight in his eyes, Thorin’s face hollow of all other feeling, the bold, thick golden crown sat as a sentinel upon his head. Thorin had been wandering the empty, golden floor in the Hall of Welcoming, mumbling to himself in a delirious state. It was not a pleasant memory for Kíli.

“Kíli.” Balin’s voice demanded his attention.

Kíli looked up from combing Thorin’s beard. Balin was at Thorin’s feet, the boots now polished to a beautiful shine. “We need to talk about Fíli and the throne.”

Kíli’s face darkened. “You know my feelings on it, Balin.” The advisor had been hinting the past few days that Kíli would be needed to assume the throne on a permanent basis, not just temporarily filling in, during his brother’s absence. It had become a bone of contention between the two of them.

“I know you dislike speaking of it lad, but you need to prepare yourself Kíli. I don’t want Fíli to die either, but we have to plan for the possibility that you will be king, not your brother.”

“If you don’t want him to die, then why do you give up on Fíli so easily?” Kíli accused. 

Balin shot him a hurt look. “I am not giving up on him.” Kíli relaxed, only to bristle a moment later. “Yet.”

“You should not give up on him at all!” Kíli thundered, glowering at the older dwarf, his hands balling into fists, knuckles pale. The tines of the comb he held bit into his palm.

“You cannot ignore the prospect of his death, Kíli!” Balin argued back. “And that may be far kinder than what will happen if that foul spirit inside him takes over!”

The wooden comb snapped in half under Kíli’s grip. “We don’t know for certain that will happen!” 

“We don’t know that it won’t! You delude yourself if you think it can’t happen!”

Kíli had never wanted to punch Balin, as much as he did in that moment. Trembling with fury, he flung the pieces of the comb across his uncle’s body. “I know what could happen to my brother, Balin,” he hissed. “I pray with every breath in my body that it does not happen. But my brother still lives and he will be king as long as he remains so!” Too upset to think straight, Kíli stomped away, his boots resounding with his anger.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________

He had no idea where he was going until his angry tread took him to the entrance. Kíli emerged from the mountain and blinked, the brightness of day confusing him. The halls below the mountain were lit with torches, but it always seemed to be night time in the caverns of the lower levels. It was disorienting to transition from the shadows of the mountain into the blinding illumination of sunshine, even if it was muted by wintry, gray clouds. 

He rubbed his weary eyes with a sigh. Away from Balin, his temper ebbed, replaced with the fatigue that seemed to have become permanent of late. He really needed to get some sleep. He was becoming cantankerous from the lack of it.

Or, he decided, he needed to see a face that guaranteed to brighten his spirits. Tauriel. He could feel his mood lighten just thinking of her.

Shielding his hand over his brow to cut the worst of the glare while his eyes adjusted, Kíli’s gaze swept the immediate landscape, seeking the familiar figure of his fire crowned she-elf. She was supposed to be assisting with the clearing of the battlefield. He knew this through his daily reports even though Kíli hadn’t seen her since that night in Fíli’s tent. 

Kíli missed her. His heart already had a hole in it from his uncle and brother’s absence but it was widened by his separation from the elf the past few days. True, they had both been busy with the aftermath of the battle. And, he had been shut away beneath the mountain where none but dwarves had been allowed thus far. But he was just making excuses and poor ones at that. He should not have let himself be so long without her radiance.

The immediate vicinity did not reveal the elf’s whereabouts so Kíli set out in search of her. Smoke rose in several places, the stench of burnt flesh permeating the fields. Kíli held his sleeve over his nose as he walked. Piles of goblin and orc, some thrice as tall as Kíli, forced him to alter his path as he searched for Tauriel.

After twenty minutes of choking on the fumes of death, Kíli finally came across a dwarf he recognized. “Bifur!” He called out to the wild dwarf with the axe buried in his forehead. Kíli made his way over to him.

Bifur grunted a greeting in Khuzdul. He was loading the bodies of fallen dwarves upon a cart attached to a mulish, curly pony. Kíli’s mood sobered as he moved to help fill the cart. The work was going to delay him, but every able person’s help was needed.

Once the cart was at its limit, Bifur grunted thanks to him. As the toymaker headed around to lead the pony back towards the mountain, Kíli called out, “Have you seen Tauriel?” Adding, “The red haired elf guard from the dungeons at Mirkwood,” a moment later after realizing Bifur may not know who she was.

Bifur nodded. Using Khuzdul and hand gestures, Kíli became aware that Bifur seemed to know exactly who she was and he learned that she was up on Raven Hill. There was another hand gesture made that Kíli was sure he mistook. Bifur’s communication was stilted at times by the injury on his head.

“Thank you, Bifur.” Kíli glanced at the dwarf who waved as he led the pony off. Frowning, Kíli contemplated that hand gesture. It was a signal of admiration for the elf. Kíli had thought he was the only one who respected Tauriel, even as an elf. He started off towards Raven Hill; musing on her while he walked.

No, it wasn’t just respect he felt for her. He revered the way she did the right thing without having to think about it. Of all the elves in King Thranduil’s palace, she had been one of the only ones who had held neither disdain nor dislike for the dwarves in her care. She had an open curiosity of them that had appealed to Kíli. He loved to share a good story, especially bragging on the deeds of dwarves - and if it was a story about himself - so much the better.

For the many weeks the company had spent languishing beneath Thranduil’s halls, Kíli had shared many conversations with her. It began with inconsequential stories of battles that had eventually turned to chats about food, debates over the best brews and promises to challenge each other to archery if there came a time the company would be released.

He liked her spirit. She was not like the aloof elves that the company had met in Rivendell. Those elves had been beautiful, but cold and remote like he once imagined starlight to be. Tauriel proved his idea wrong. Her beauty did not come from just the outside, but also from the fire and vitality that shone from her. Her bright, warm starlight, as he thought of it, had called to him when he was lost in the dark shadow of the morgul poison. It beckoned him from the brink, restoring him from the threat of oblivion.

Not that Tauriel wasn’t outwardly beautiful. She possessed pale skin like most elves. However, unlike most elves she had a slight shading of freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheeks. It gave Tauriel warmth - a realness- that other elves lacked to his mind. The long locks of her hair burnt like flame in the sunshine and his fingers itched to touch it as boldly as he had that night she woke after the battle. He had noticed that her eyes changed color depending upon her mood. Golden brown when she was contemplative; or a bright, light green when she was excited or angered. She was a head taller than he, but that didn’t put him off in the slightest.

He grinned remembering that first sight of her. Their height difference had put her bosom within direct line of his eyesight. Unable to help himself, he’d made an off color joke to see if she would stammer and blush like some of the elf maids of Rivendell. She had returned his jest with a witty retort that had surprised and delighted him. After they had been put in their cells, Kíli had made it his mission to tease her to see her blush. To his vexation, she had proved stubbornly resistant in complying.

The outpost of Raven Hill loomed on the southwestern tip of the Lonely Mountain. Kíli approached the fortress warily, his sword held out before him. This far from the front of Erebor and Dale the disposal of bodies was less frequent, the area not yet purged of potential survivors. Prone bodies of orc and goblin filth could not be assumed dead. If Tauriel was here, Kíli feared for her safety.

There would be much burning here, only the enemy fallen. No men had ventured this way and only a handful of dwarves, one hobbit and an elf had been here. Kíli felt a certain amount of pride knowing that he, his uncle, Dwalin, Fíli and Tauriel had created most of this genocide.

And Legolas. Kíli scowled in memory of the elf prince and his fancy fighting skills. If there was one elf who liked to make a spectacle of himself in battle, it was the blonde prince of Mirkwood. Kíli hadn’t missed the elf hanging upside down from a bat and then shooting an arrow through its head... who did that? “Ruddy show off,” he grumbled kicking an arrow ridden goblin corpse at the entrance of the gate.

“He is quite dead.” Tauriel’s voice came from above him. “And were you an enemy sneaking up on me, you would have been dead too.”

Kíli glanced up. Tauriel’s bow was knocked, an arrow aimed at him from her position in the embrasure of the gate. Her smile and her tone belied the threat of her words.

“I assure you I am no enemy,” Kíli returned her smile, bowing low. “However if your arrow is aimed at my heart, then I must confess your aim is already true. The target has been struck and defeated by your beauty Milady.”

Kíli was interested to note that flowery compliments did what weeks of salacious insinuations did not. A blush sprang up on Tauriel’s cheeks, his grin widening further at the sight. She relaxed her bowstring, disappearing from the crenel opening. He sheathed his sword and entered the fortress to join her.

She moved with the effortless grace of the Firstborn as she flowed down the entry stairs on silent feet. He was relieved to note she seemed in better health than when he had last seen her at Fíli’s tent. He had feared that the effects of Morgoth’s attack would impact her ability to heal.

Tauriel was studying him as much as he studied her. “I did not think I would see you before tomorrow, when they open the gates to the mountain,” she said, softly.

_The funeral._

Kíli nodded in understanding. Only dwarves had been allowed access into the mountain. Tomorrow, Erebor would receive its first visitors in years. “They are still making preparations but it should be finished by tonight. We have worked non-stop to make the caverns presentable for Thorin’s burial. I needed a break and I wanted to see you.”

Her eyes brightened to a light green color and he took that to mean she was happy to see him too. 

A moment later she frowned. “There are dark shadows beneath your eyes Kíli, have you been sleeping?”

“Some.” Kíli shrugged. “Not often. And when I do sleep, I have nightmares about Fíli.” He decided to exclude the fact that she also had been in some of those same dreams.

“How is he?”

“There is no change.”

Tauriel’s brow knit together.

“What?” Kíli was mystified by the uncertain expression upon her face.

“I am both relieved and troubled by your words. And I do not know which is greater.”

Kíli barked a laugh that was not one bit humorous. Tauriel’s lips pursed in a moue at his reaction, and he hastened to correct her frown. “You’re not alone in that feeling, Tauriel.”

Turning away from her, Kíli paced the length of the stone entrance. “I go to see him every night and I talk to him, praying to Mahal for his life, for his soul.” Kili shoulders slumped. “I love my brother. I want him to wake up, but I find myself fearing it - what if he does wake? Only it is not him, but the other. What becomes of Fíli?”

Kíli looked back at Tauriel. Her eyes had turned dark gold and her lips were pressed together. “Don’t.” He shook his head, unable to handle her pity and sorrow for him. Too many of the company had already heaped their grief on him as if they expected an inevitable conclusion that was not in Fíli’s favor.

Tauriel swallowed. Nodding her head she uttered, _“Henion. I chythem dregathar o men sui fuin drega od Anor.”_

Stymied by her elf language, Kíli asked, “What did you say?”

“Roughly spoken, it means _May your brother’s enemy flee in the light of the sun._ ”

“You said that way too nicely for it to be of any rough manner. Not that elves ever have rough manners.” Kíli paused and then added, “Unless you count your king.”

Tauriel cracked a smile at his jest. He grinned back, feeling his spirits lift just by making her laugh. Not wishing to dull the moment again, he changed the subject by asking, “What are you doing all the way out here? I thought you were helping to clear the fields.” He gestured towards Dale.

“Oh!” Tauriel’s head shook as she snapped to attention as if remembering something. “I came to look for something I lost.” She started past Kíli, heading up the stone steps, leaving him to follow in her wake. He climbed the staircase after her.

“What did you lose?”

“Ori’s slingshot.”

Kíli paused. Did he hear that right? “What?”

Tauriel continued on, not the least bit concerned by his confusion. She was already several steps ahead of him and he had to make haste to match her pace. “Your friend the scribe. His name is Ori, is it not?”

“Yes, but did you just say you lost his slingshot?”

Tauriel threw a look over her shoulder nodding at him.

“And how did you lose his weapon? Why would you have it?”

As the elf told him the story of how she came to use it, Kíli felt the tugging of his heartstrings snapping into place, cementing his feelings for her. Her thoughtful kindness for Ori’s sake was a gesture he never would have expected from any elf. Except from her. Because that’s who Tauriel was. 

_By Mahal’s hammer, I love her._

He paused when Tauriel stopped at the top of a staircase. “This is where I used it.” Her eyes were locked upon the ground in front of her with a frown. Kíli hurried up the last few steps to see what had her attention.

His mouth curled in distaste. Bolg’s corpse was where it had been left to rot, not having seen the touch of a death pyre yet. It was too cold for insects to feast upon him, but scavenging animals had already begun feasting upon portions of his carcass. His eyes had been picked clean - probably by the ravens that the hill was famously named after.

“We’ll both look for it. It will go faster,” he decided. She nodded in agreement.

They stayed a careful distance from the body. Even though Bolg was dead by Kíli’s own sword, the Dwarf Prince kept a careful eye on him; as if expecting the orc to rise once more, cheating death. He chided himself mentally for his foolish thought. Fíli would laugh at him for it.

It did not take long for Kíli to spot Ori’s weapon by the wall, caught by the strap around a rock, the handle dangling down the cliff side. “I found it,” he told Tauriel. He leaned over to pick up the slingshot, flicking wet slush off the handle. He glanced up at Tauriel to find her head was down, still searching the ground as she skirted the wall beyond Bolg’s body.

“Tauriel.” Her head snapped up at her name. “I found it.” Kíli waved the weapon.

“Good,” The elf nodded her head and then cast her eyes downward again, her eyes sharp and focused, her step slow as she rounded the dais. Kíli tilted his head watching her. 

“What is it you are seeking now?”

“Your promise.”

“My what?”

“The stone your mother gave you.” Tauriel paused to look at him. Her bottom lip disappeared between her teeth for a moment, and Kíli found himself arrested by the sight. He almost groaned when she released her lip saying, “It was the only thing I had left to use against him.” Her eyes flicked towards Bolg.

“Is that what hit him?” Kíli asked, incredulous. She nodded and began to search again. He remembered Bolg’s blade ready to pierce his chest, his sword arm caught between himself and the giant orc. It was Bolg’s head jerking back as something struck him that had freed Kíli’s arm just enough he was able to drive it straight up into the orc’s skull.

“Yes.” Tauriel’s eyes were golden with hesitation, as she glanced towards him again. “I am really sorry Kíli... I didn’t mean to lose your gift.”

Kíli shook his head, smiling to reassure her. “It is just a token. You saved my life and that is what my mother intended it for. We’ll find it.” He tucked Ori’s slingshot into his belt and started to search with Tauriel. The half melted snow and ice upon the stone floor created a congealed, gray and icy slush that could easily hide the dark rune stone.

“You know technically that stone is not mine anymore.” Kíli tried to make himself sound more casual than he felt as he subtly reminded her of his lakeside confession. He had given the stone to Tauriel as a symbol of his hope and feelings that he would return to her side once he and his brother had restored his uncle’s kingdom under the mountain. He would have made many more promises that afternoon had they not been interrupted by Legolas. _Bloody elf prince._

“Yes, I know. It belongs to me.”

Kíli’s heart skipped at her admission of ownership, spoken more distinctly than his own comment. He stopped searching, moving instead to intercept her own circular path with his. He took her hands, pulling her aside. She stopped, her head tilted down to look upon him, her brows lifted in question.

Kíli was either about to risk making an utter fool of himself or he was going to gain everything with his next words. “Does this mean you accept my feelings? Could you -,” he hesitated a moment before finding courage to ask, “Could you love me?” His pulse pounded loudly in his ears, anxious for her answer.

For what seemed an eternity she was silent, their gazes locked upon each other. Kíli searched her eyes for a clue to her answer, but they were not green or brown, but that hazel color of between that revealed nothing to him. The longer the look lingered, he began to sweat, and worried the outcome would not be in his favor.

And then Tauriel’s eyes softened, a dimple appearing in her cheek as she smiled. His pulse sped up as she removed one of her hands from his. She softly caressed his jawline, disturbing the short stubble that grew there. He nearly groaned in response, heat coursing through him at her gentle touch.

“Yes.” Her voice was warm and strong as she answered his question. Kíli’s heart leapt with joy, his grin threatening to split his face as he beamed at her. _“Gi melin.”_

“Does that mean what I think it means?” Kíli asked brightly. Happiness soared through his veins; lightening the gloom that had hung upon him the past few days. His entire frame felt charged with euphoria, begging to be released to the world. He wanted to run, to leap, to shout for joy. He did none of those things, but he did turn his cheek to press a kiss to the palm of her hand where it lingered at his jaw.

A blush bloomed across her features. “It think you know it does.” Her eyes were sparkling light green now, the same merriment reflected in them.

Kíli finally gave in to one of his urges, letting out a whooping, jubilant shout that ended in a laugh, easing his extra energy. Tauriel’s glad laughter joined his, a sound that made him beam to hear it. As his chuckles tapered off, another impulse hit him.

Feeling emboldened by her confession, Kíli lifted onto his toes; his hand going to her neck to urge her head down towards him. He was rewarded when she slanted her head, ducking lightly to meet him. He met her gaze, asking a simple question with a glance. In the warmth of her eyes, he found the permission he sought 

Kíli’s cupped her face in his hands, tenderly pressing his lips to hers. His eyes closed not a moment after hers shut. He could feel the warm softness of her sweet breath in the kiss. As the kiss lingered, Kíli felt Tauriel’s arms wind around his neck, the pressure between their joined lips increasing slightly.

Time stalled for Kíli in that moment. He had wanted to kiss her so many times; that night they spoke of starlight and fire moon when a cell door stood between them. Then again, by the lakeside after Smaug destroyed the city, and before Gandalf had interrupted them a few nights ago. So many missed opportunities that he regretted, knowing now the pure bliss of her kiss.

The kiss was simple, innocent and engaging and Kíli wanted more of it. He pressed forward to coax at her lips with his, but it was Tauriel stepping back with a light laugh that stopped his advances. His head reeled in confusion, wondering at that laugh. Perhaps it had only been he who was enjoying the kiss?

Tauriel lifted her hand, rubbing her chin. “Your beard is tickling me.” 

Kíli flushed. “I’m sorry.” Of course she wasn’t used to the hairy roughness of dwarves. He should have thought of that.

“Don’t be. It’s not an unpleasant sensation, just different.” She didn’t seem repulsed, for which he was glad. Tauriel’s lips lifted in a smile that shot warmth straight through his body. He grinned in response.

She took a step towards him, but then her head jerked up. “A rider approaches.” Fleet of foot, like all her kin, Tauriel turned and raced up the stairs to the next level where one could overlook the main gate. “It is the dragon slayer,” she called down to him.

“Bard? What business does he have here?” Kíli frowned. Not that the bargeman was unwelcome, but he was interrupting a moment Kíli had been enjoying.

Tauriel shook her head at him. Together they made their way to the entrance where Bard had ridden through the portcullis. He smoothly dismounted from a white horse that Kíli recognized from the time Bard had tried to reason with his uncle before the war. Bard gave the horse’s neck a pat before approaching the two.

“Good afternoon Master Dwarf, Lady Elf,” Bard greeted them cordially. “It is good to find you both well this day.”

“Greetings, Dragon Slayer.”

Bard’s moustache barely twitched at the title that had been given to him in the wake of Smaug’s death.

“What brings you from Dale this afternoon?” Kíli’s questions was asked with far less courtesy than Tauriel’s greeting had been given. From his peripheral he saw Tauriel frown at his tone. 

Kíli didn’t have a way to explain his mixed feelings about the bargeman. On one hand, Bard had threatened the dwarves with his longbow, smuggled them into Esgaroth for a hefty price that bled them dry, provided them with sub-par weapons and attempted to stop the entire party from reaching the mountains in time for Durin’s Day. On the other hand, Bard had offered four dwarves shelter, including a sick Kíli, when the Master of Esgaroth would not. And unknowingly the dwarves’ presence in the bargeman’s home had attracted orc trouble which led to his home being disturbed and his children’s lives in danger. And then the dragon burned said home.

“I came to speak to you, Prince Kíli.” Bard glanced at Tauriel and then asked, “May we have a word privately?”

“Anything you say to me can be said in front of Tauriel.”

As quickly as Kíli spoke, Tauriel lifted her hand, dismissing his words. “No, it is quite alright Kíli. I have come here with a purpose and I should keep it, before I lose the afternoon light for it. ” She gave a small bow towards Bard, taking a few steps backward, turning and going back up the stairs.

Bard and Kíli both watched as she went. She glanced back at Kíli and the corner of her lips lifted, just for him, right before she disappeared around a stone wall. _She’s still looking for your promise._ He’d make her a dozen more promises just for one of those smiles.

Kíli’s pleasant thoughts about Tauriel slipped away as he turned towards Bard. Wary, he asked, “What is it you want of me?”

“I am here to speak to you of the King’s funeral tomorrow.”

“What of it?”

Bard hesitated a moment before reaching into the interior of his leather coat. He pulled out a white handkerchief, wrapped around an item. The bowman held it out towards Kíli with one hand. With his free hand, Bard uncovered the object within, revealing a singular, glowing gemstone.

The Arkenstone. The King’s jewel.

Kíli had forgotten about it. In the tumult of the battle, the aftermath, dealing with the loss of his uncle and brother’s illness; he had completely overlooked the stone. Shame burnt through Kíli over his neglect. Thorin and Fíli would not have so easily forgotten the symbol of the Durin line. Nor would they have allowed Bard to still have the jewel so long after the war was over.

Kíli’s shame turned to immediate anger. Why did Bard still have the jewel? For what purpose? Did he still intend to use it to claim a ransom? If that was the case, he was in for a rude surprise. That stone belonged to his family. If not his uncle, then his brother would have it. And if not his brother, it would belong to Kíli.

Kíli looked away from the jewel, up into the bowman’s brown eyes. “That stone does not belong to you.” His voice was icy as he spoke, his hand finding the hilt of his sword at his belt. “It belongs to my uncle.” It was only after he spoke, that he realized he talked as if Thorin was still alive. His chest tightened, his heart grieving his mistake.

“And to your uncle I would return it!” Bard interjected. He did not look away from Kíli’s gaze as he said this. A long minute passed in which they stared each other down; Kíli glaring silently at Bard who did not cower. Finally it was Bard who broke their stalemate.

“I realize our last meeting about the Arkenstone was ill received. It is not my intent to repeat that mistake, Kíli.”

Bard’s assessment of what happened at the entrance of Erebor was a bit of an understatement. Kíli recalled quite vividly casting aspersions upon his person for the theft of the Arkenstone. He frowned at the memory as Bard continued.

“Your uncle promised to share the wealth of Erebor, in return for Esgaroth’s assistance.” Kíli opened his mouth to protest, but Bard made a motion for silence. “Let me finish.” Kíli closed his mouth.

“I was given this stone by one of your company, so that your uncle would be forced to remember his promise and fulfill it.” Bard glanced down at the jewel. “But now your uncle is dead and as it was his oath, neither you nor your brother are obligated to meet it.”

“However, it is my hope that you and your brother will remember what it was like when Smaug descended upon all of us. You were there, in Esgaroth, when it went up in flames. You fled his wrath along with my children. You feared his fire, the same as my people did. You saw everything taken from us, just as it was once taken from your own. If there is any benevolence in your heart Prince Kíli, then I would ask you to remember that. To remember us.”

Kíli’s glower had lessened during Bard’s speech. By the end, he was just frowning as he weighed the man’s pleas to him. 

“As your uncle gave his life, all in the name of reclaiming your home and this jewel,” Bard continued, gesturing with the stone in hand, “I thought it would be only right, that the stone be buried with Thorin, under the mountain where it will always be.”

Kíli looked at the Arkenstone, really looked at it. His breath caught in his throat as he gazed upon the stone.

Even under the cloudy sky, there was no masking its brilliance. It glowed with a silvery sheen that reminded him of the mithril mail shirt his uncle had given to Bilbo. Beneath the silver sheen, against the dark cloth of Bard’s handkerchief, the stone seemed to be lit from within by a fire. Burnt gold glimmered into electric blue, every faceted color shimmering as if they burned. The stone’s ethereal glow made it seem as if it were alive.

Anger burned in Kíli. Such beauty should not be hidden in his uncle’s grave. How dare Bard suggest such a thing! It was meant to shine above the King as he sat on throne of Erebor. It was the King’s jewel! What did the man from the lake town know of it? He was just a thief. A foolish thief who had stolen their jewel and held it for ransom!

Long had his ancestors held ownership and Kíli would see it returned to the hand of Durin’s folk, where it belonged. _Bury it? HAH! The stone is mine!_ His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, covetous eyes contemplating the jewel and plotting the best way to remove his precious stone from Bard’s filthy grasp-

Bard gently covered the stone back up, breaking Kíli’s line of sight upon it.

Kíli blinked. _What just happened?_

He had been drowning one moment, overwhelmed in his own avarice. The next he had broken the surface, saved by an inconsequential action. 

The Arkenstone. Kíli’s pulse raced just thinking of the stone beneath Bard’s handkerchief. He swiftly turned away, taking a breath to calm himself down. Sweet Mahal, he had been ready to challenge Bard over the jewel. To kill him if necessary.

“Bury it with Thorin!” Kíli’s voice was unintentionally gruffer than he meant it to be. He was afraid of the reaction the stone had produced in him. If sight alone could create such feelings, what would have happened if he actually had touched it? What would happen to Fíli if it ever came to him? “Do as you will.”

Unaware of the personal turmoil within the Dwarf Prince, Bard nodded his head. “It will be done.”

Kíli turned to see him pocketing the stone in his coat. The urge to take it back soared once again within his breast, threatening to prevail. Kíli tightened his fingers on his sword, not to threaten the bowman, but as an anchor to stop his compulsion from reigning. He took another deep breath.

“As to your other request,” Kíli spoke, attempting to take his mind off the item in Bard’s coat. “The gold in Erebor is not mine to give. It belongs to my brother now. I will bring the matter to his attention as soon as he is well enough to hear it.” 

Bard inclined his head in gratitude. “I understand. How is your brother’s health?”

Kíli gave him the same noncommittal explanation that everyone who was not the company or Tauriel was given about his brother. Afterwards, he and Bard exchanged information, reporting on the health progress of both of their peoples, lists of supplies needed to be addressed immediately and other immediate needs. More than once during their talk, Kíli caught himself staring at Bard’s coat pocket, with desirous eyes.

Kíli felt a mixture of unease and relief later, as the bowman made his farewells and departed. He stood upon the gate of the stronghold, watching Bard’s figure as it grew smaller with distance. Thoughts of the Arkenstone continued to plague him even though it retreated out of his sight, doubt lingering in its wake.

_Brother, have I made the right decision?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I wanted to address the Arkenstone before it was buried with Thorin. In the books as all three males of the Durin direct line are dead, nobody objects to it being buried with Thorin. However, after watching the movie, in which it was Kíli who called Bard a thief and challenged his hold on the stone, I felt it needed to be addressed. I could not imagine Kíli wanting to bury the jewel with Thorin unless he recognized that the stone affects his family in a strange way. **
> 
> **In regards to Tauriel's hazel eyes - most fanfictions describe her eyes as emerald green, but that is not how I feel about it. I've studied the actress Evangeline's pictures several times and determined she has hazel eyes. That is really cool because depending upon lighting or her mood, her eyes can appear brown or green. It's nice to have such variety. **
> 
> Translations:  
> ** Maam - Mother  
> ** Demup telek menu Fíli - Honor acts through you Fíli (loosely saying we need your help Fíli)  
> ** Marnat-am - Stop! Stop now!  
> ** Henion - I understand  
> ** Gi Melin - I love you.


End file.
